


Following Orders

by The_Secretary (Kizzywiggle)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Compliance, Control, Experimental Style, F/M, Mallorpenny, More Burlesque than a Striptease, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Stranger Fantasy, Submission, Top!M, fantasies, hints of exhibitionism, risk, tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8739268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/The_Secretary
Summary: Another Mallorpenny ficlet.
Flying my kink flag, here...and another experimental write. I want to see what I can achieve in erotic writing without being explicit - a drawn-out burlesque tease of a scene is my aim. 
Will I succeed? Who knows *shrugs and smiles*





	

Moneypenny opens the envelope which is centered on the desk blotter on her return from lunch, reading the note inside with a tiny, secretive smile, colour washing up to her cheeks from the prim collar of her white shirt. She reads it through again then replaces it in the envelope, slipping the letter into the handbag under her desk and making her way to the small bathroom along the corridor.

Slipping into the cubicle she closes and locks the door and quickly slides her knickers off; they catch on the spike of her heel briefly, but with a deft tug she unhooks them and screws them into a tiny ball, sliding them up into the long sleeve of her shirt. She straightens her skirt and exits the cubicle to wash her hands, casting furtive glances at what she is sure is the noticeable bulge in her sleeve as she does so.

Returning to her desk she quickly stuffs the scrunched-up knickers into her handbag alongside the note, then pats her hands on her flushed cheeks. Tanner, passing the open door of her office asks if she is ok and she smiles, saying something about maybe a cold…? Bill makes sympathetic noises and walks on by, and Moneypenny tries to drag her mind away from what she feels is her obviously un-knickered state and back to the important, must-not-screw-it-up-because-she’s-horny, job of organising the man who organises the agency which protects Britain’s intelligence interests.

For the rest of the afternoon she is mostly successful; only occasionally being reminded of her state by the slip of naked intimate flesh across the fabric of her skirt when she moves, or when she ducks awkwardly to retrieve files from a low drawer, the whole time excitedly aware that she could accidentally flash anybody walking into the office.

Himself leaves work ahead of her as usual, breezing out of the door with a suave “Evening, Moneypenny!” and she smiles, tight-lipped and quietly fuming, at his camel-hair coat disappearing from view. She puts in another forty-five minutes or so before powering down the computer and gathering up her stuff to go home.

Another half hour later and seated on a crammed tube train, she thinks about the note. 

_I’ll know,_ he’d written. _You_ know _I’ll know. No cheating. Be brave for me._

She smiles again, and a man seated opposite her actually smiles back. She blushes, both at the unexpected novelty of making eye contact with a commuter, but because she feels certain that _he_ knows her secret too, sat across from her in a crowded tin can… She briefly fantasises about him summoning her with a crooked finger to come and stand swaying before him in the packed carriage. Would he slide his hand subtly between my thighs, bringing me off without anyone knowing? she wonders, _Or would he simply command me to pull my skirt up and bare my body to them all?_ Hotly, she imagines this total stranger taking control of her like that: the shocked, disbelieving half-glances of the jaded commuters as he finger-fucked her to a screaming, shivering mess of an orgasm, _right in front of them…_

With a start Moneypenny realises that she has been staring goofily at the poor commuter for quite a while, and that she is most definitely wet now. She drops her eyes and squirms slightly. The silky lining of her skirt catches damply on her skin and she just barely holds back a gasp; the slight sensation is another layer of tease in her mind, driving her arousal higher. She bites her lip hard, trying to drag her riotous, horny brain back under the control of her less-wanton, more _sensible_ self, but her body stages an excited coup, a blush painting her skin and sending tiny electric shivers down her spine as her mind shows her depraved, detailed images of being bared and fucked _before_ strangers, _by_ a stranger.

Luckily she is only five minutes away from her stop, and she exits the station to emerge at street level with a relieved sigh. The faint bite of the late-autumn air cuts through her clothes and cools her feverish flesh, calming her mind as it does. However, the same breeze also whistles coldly up her skirt, drying the arousal gathered between her thighs, and causing her to gasp aloud as it chills her hotly aroused body. She stumbles, then catches herself, heading home, towards _him_ , like a woman possessed.

A brief - distracted, tormented - walk later, Moneypenny bursts through the door of their flat and immediately sees him, seated in the armchair which faces the door, one uplighter glowing behind him, casting his shadow long and dark across the blandly beige carpet. It’s a position of power, a tiny subtle mindfuck, and she breathes in sharply at the unspoken intent of it. 

“Close the door,” he says.

She obeys and stands, somewhat like a deer in the headlights, awaiting his instruction.

“Did you get my note?”

“Yes, Sir,”

“Have you done as I asked?”

“Was it a request?” she sasses in the tone she’s more like to use with Bond than _him_ , then gasps and bites her lip at the arrogant smirk which suffuses his elegant face.

“Oh, dear, Miss Moneypenny...attitude. I’ll have to remember that later on,” he says softly. “Come here.”

She crosses the room quickly to stand before him.

“Show me.”

Pulling the crumpled ball of fabric from her bag, she holds it out on a flat, slightly trembling, palm, but smiles and raises her eyebrows at him, trying to somehow disguise - or at least finesse - the arousal which by now thunders around her body with a relentless, drugging beat.

“Good girl. But you know that’s not what I meant. _Show. Me_.”

She dips slightly to set her bag on the floor and shrugs so that her coat slides off her shoulders to whump, softly, by her feet which are clad in knee-high suede boots with spiky skyscraper heels. At his look she gathers the fabric of her skirt on each thigh, fingers crawling upon the fine wool to scrunch it up, the skirt rising higher and higher, inching inevitably upwards. Just before the skirt bares her he holds up a finger and Moneypenny freezes.

Sir sits forward in the chair, elbows on knees, and draws in a deep, shuddering breath.”I. Can. _Smell_. You.” he says softly, the plummy vowels and clipped consonants dragging sensuously down her spine. He looks up, meeting her eyes, holding her effortlessly with just his gaze. “You’re positively delicious, do you know that?”

Moneypenny looks down at the floor with a smile. Pleasing him delights her, even as her obedience does the same for him; they are a wicked, sexy feedback loop right now, sparkling erotic intent arcing unseen from him to her to him, binding them together and charging their senses. She shivers deeply, goosebumps flaring along her limbs, nipples hard, dampness trickling slowly from her body. Oh, help! She might not survive this….

“Continue,” he orders, and she does, drawing her skirt up the last few inches to display herself to him… _for_ him. His sharply indrawn breath is a poem, a symphony, and she stands taller, widening her stance minutely and locking her knees to display herself proudly. Sir grunts like he’s been punched in the solar plexus. _“Fuck!”_

Oh, he swears so rarely, viewing it as crass and a loss of control, and Moneypenny feels like cheering. She knows better than to move until told, though, and stands with outward calm while he looks his fill. The trickle between her thighs feels like a stream by now; she’s _certain_ she’ll be standing in a puddle before long, but she doesn’t move so much as an eyelash until he says, “Turn,” and she exults inside at the gravel which has entered his voice.

She turns slowly, confidently, letting him look his fill...after all, she is _his_ , to look at, to touch, to command. When she’s turned a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, he says, “Eyes.”

Looking up from the floor and into his eyes, she bites the inside of her cheek, _hard_ , to prevent her from grinning like an idiot at the arousal she sees there: this delicious game is driving them both wild, but she’s already earned a mark for sass. To smile now would probably leave her with an incredibly sore arse later, and she isn’t sure she is in the mood for a spanking.

Sir smiles. “Do you remember the rest of my instructions from the note?” he drawls. 

She nods.

“Go on, then, and eyes on me.”

She moves her hands to the concealed zip of her skirt and slides it slowly down with the faintest rasp. Sliding her thumbs under the waistband she skims it to the floor, stepping daintily out of it and to the side. Her tailored shirt barely covers her to mid-buttock, and leaves her nearly exposed at the front, and she watches as his pupils blow wide and colour touches high on his cheeks. The hide-and-reveal game makes him wild, but he’ll not lose so much as an ounce of control unless it suits him to.

Moneypenny raises her hands to the small button at her throat, and the shirt lifts too, baring her fully. Never looking away from him looking at her, she calmly unbuttons her shirt and wriggles it down her arms, dropping it on the pile of her clothes. Sir holds up a hand again and circles a finger, so she turns once more, this time clad only in a plain white bra and knee-high boots. 

As soon as she’s facing away he says, “Stop!” and with a scuff of suit fabric against the upholstery Sir is _there_ , pressed against her back, his suit trousers and shirt sliding against her, the creases and crumples of wear feeling like tiny teeth biting into her hot, sensitive skin, the cold stripe of his tie pin an exclamation mark of sensation between her shoulder blades. He brings up a hand to rest flat on the upper slope of her breastbone, almost like a collar, and with a quick movement bites softly into the meat of her trapezius, his other hand moving to rest just below her navel.

They stand quiet and unmoving, a tableau of control and passion. 

She is caged, mastered utterly, and she loves it. He moves suddenly, thrusting against her backside in tiny, controlled movements and she softly hums her delight until he pushes himself back. Air swirls across her skin where he was pressed so warmly, and she shudders brokenly. “Continue,” he says, and his breath is loud and his voice deep and rough.

Moneypenny completes her circle. Her breasts are so full they're almost painful, her nipples scraping against the fabric of her bra, and as his nostrils flare she knows the aroma of her arousal is getting stronger. Sir nods once and she reaches behind herself to unclip her bra, drawing the straps down until the cups fall away from her aching breasts. She wonders if he’ll play with her breasts - he loves to, usually, and she is desperate for the touch of either hand or mouth - but he says, “Do it,” and she has no choice but to obey. 

Dressed just in her boots she moves to the sofa adjacent to his chair and settles herself primly on the cushions, knees together, feet tucked to the side, hands clasped in her lap. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, playing the next few minutes out in her head to give herself confidence.

Scooting back a little, she plants one spiked heel firmly on the floor and brings the other one up to nestle against the opposite thigh, the metal tip a tiny cold shock against her skin as she lets her knee drop to the side, opening herself fully to his hungry gaze. She drapes one arm over the arm of the sofa and the other along its back, the slight scratch of the tweedy fabric a torment against her back and buttocks, and breathes deeply once more before arching slightly, pushing her breasts towards him in an invitation as old as time. Sir’s eyes trace her body, flicking between her face, her breasts and her wet, splayed thighs and back again. He coughs just a little. “Now, for the rest...”

She smiles.


End file.
